Effie Maurice eBook

The next morning, in accordance with his children’s
wishes, Mr Maurice accompanied Harry to the residence
of the poor woman they had seen at Mr T.’s shop.
It was a miserable hovel, but after all there was an
air of cleanliness and comfort about it, that the
most abject poverty can seldom of itself destroy.
A white curtain, mended it is true, in very many places,
yet looking quite respectable, still shaded the only
window of the apartment. There were a few coals,
on which was laid a single stick of wood, in the open
fire-place, but it sent forth but a small quantity
of heat, and the room felt damp and chilly. On
a narrow bed drawn close to the fire lay the sick
child, and beside it sat the mother plying her needle
steadily, and every now and then casting an anxious
eye upon her babe. She arose when Mr Maurice and
Harry entered, and her reception of the boy was truly
affecting. She told again and again of his following
her the day before, and how kindly he had inquired
if he could do anything for her, and then bursting
into loud sobs, and leaning over the bed, she said
nobody could do anything unless it was to cure her
baby. Mr Maurice took the hand of the little sufferer,
but it was burning hot, and the face, which was the
day before pale, was now so flushed that Harry could
scarcely recognise it.

‘He has a fever,’ said Mr Maurice.

‘A fever! oh don’t say so,’ shrieked
the poor woman, ’it was of that his father died—­it
is a cold, nothing but a cold! Oh, how could I
be so foolish as to take him out!’

What could Mr Maurice do, but soothe her, and promise
to be the child’s physician? In a few moments
she became calmer, and then she told him that her
baby had been failing for a long time—­day
by day she could see that he grew poorer, but she
could not tell why, till at last a cough had come,
and concluding that it was occasioned by a cold, she
had given the usual remedies, but without effect.
The day before, having no one with whom to leave him,
she had taken him out, and the fever that ensued was
the result.

‘Do you think I have killed my baby, sir?’
she inquired mournfully; and she looked so long and
earnestly into Mr Maurice’s face for an answer,
that he was obliged to reply ‘No.’
It was easy for him to discern that the death-blow
was before received.

‘Oh thank you,’ replied the poor mother,
joyfully, ’I was sure he must get well.’
Mr Maurice was about to speak, but interrupted himself—­should
he undeceive her? Should he tear from her her
last hope? perhaps it was weakness, but he could not
do it. The blow was too sudden, too heavy, and
it must be softened to her. She said nothing of
poverty, but he knew by the rapidity with which she
plied her needle in the intervals of conversation
that she was toiling for her bread and fuel, and he
secretly resolved to place her in a condition to devote
herself entirely to the care of the child.

As Mr Maurice glanced around the room, noting each
article it contained, and gaining from thence some
item of knowledge concerning the character of its
owner, his eye fell upon a shelf on which lay a few
tracts, a Bible, and a hymn-book. ‘I see,’
said he, pointing to them, ’that whatever trial
you may be called to pass through, you are provided
with a better comforter than any earthly friend.’